


The Sleeping Tunic

by Gail Riordan (lferion)



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Challenge fic, M/M, PWP, TPM, clothing-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-10-11
Updated: 2000-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:23:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/Gail%20Riordan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obi-Wan contemplates a garment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sleeping Tunic

**Author's Note:**

> Some time ago, a challenge was raised on M_A to dress the Boys in 'anything other than thin sleep pants.' Shortly thereafter I woke up from a pleasant dream with this image in my head of a hand, and a hem, and, well, you'll see.
> 
> Thanks go to Ruth for telling me it was done already, and to post it.

Qui-Gon has this tunic, you see, that he wears to sleep in. That tunic seduced me.

It's not much to look at - just a linen t-tunic, sort of cream colored, with a band of deep blue at the neck and hem and sleeves. (What that blue does to his eyes!) It's old and frayed and thin with wear, and so soft! Linen gets that way, there's nothing else quite like it. Just looking at the thing it's hard to see how it could seduce anyone. Yes, well, it's short, about mid thigh, and the sleeves come to mid forearm. The blue is a nice color even though it's faded in spots, and the keyhole slit at the neck has possibilities, but really, by itself, it's just a tunic.

Oh, all right. Yes, even by itself it's still his tunic, and it holds his shape and a hint of his scent even fresh from the laundry, but it's what it does when it's on him that really does it. The way it molds to his form, falls from the points of his shoulders, outlines the jut of his hip, the wonderful curve of his ass, hints at other delights.

(I love his ass. I think about filling my hands with those firm globes as we move together, imagining the way they would fit between my hipbones, cradling my cock, watching all that power and beauty flexing before me, neatly encased in his well-cut leggings, or peeping out from just under the hem of his sleeping tunic.... But I get ahead of myself.)

This tunic shows off some of the most unexpectedly attractive parts of him. Like his forearms, which are usually covered by two, if not three layers of sleeve. These sleeves are short and wide, and emphasize all his lean, strong swordsman's muscles, the neat economy of his wrists. (For all he's a big man, he's very finely made.) I love the way the edge will slide up, wrinkling in folds to reveal the interesting crease of his elbow. My fingers want to creep inside and explore the soft places hidden up under his upper arms - he is surprisingly sensitive there.

The sleeve hems are good, but the lower hem.... Oh, my. Well above the knee, highlighting the corded silk and steel of his thighs, his honed strength, witness to his stamina.... The hem often rides up as he turns in his sleep, displaying ... other assets. The line of that hem gets me every time.

The neckline gets me too. That deep blue that makes his eyes even bluer and turns the rich cream of his skin into something gleaming and magical. The way the edge just outlines the inner curve of his collarbones, turns on the points and the slit frames the hollow of his throat, deep and sweet, and teases me with a glimpse of pectoral and breastbone.

I can see the shadow of his nipples through the worn linen, rosy against the paleness of his skin. My thumbs itch to rub and circle and fondle them through the cloth. I want to make them pebble and peak. I want to leave tantalizing wet transparent circles to tease and brush at them as we go on to other things.

I dream about that tunic. Of him in that tunic. Of me making love to him in that tunic.

The image of my hand, sliding, oh so slowly up his long thigh, easing up under the soft, frayed edge, searching out hidden treasure, coaxing fire to life, wicked and waxed in old, worn linen.

I want to turn down the corner of the neck, to lick and kiss and suckle at his collarbone, leave him with a passionmark that will not fade for days (peeping just under the edge of his undertunic.) A shuddering delight, feeling him harden wonderfully through the cloth, pressed tight against my thigh when I do it.

I think of the cool/warm feel of the fabric rucked and bunched against our bellies as we grind our groins together, the fine weave smooth under my palms as I sweep my hands down the landscape of his back and grab and knead and squeeze those tempting, tight cheeks.

Now I dream of the edge of the hem brushing against my back, caressing my ass as he takes me, enters me, fills me to the brim, the linen of my undone loinwrap twisted against my balls, wrapped in his fist around my aching cock. I have bathed carefully, ecstatically, and oiled myself, ready for him. So ready for him.

Last night, you see, I lay curled beside him in this huge bed in the room that the Nuari have given us. He was wearing that tunic, and the blue of his eyes, the warmth of his nearness and the temptation of the hem seduced me. So I touched and talked and told him about that tunic, my dreams of him in that tunic. He, in turn, told me some of his. And, well....

Tonight, he is wearing it again, and the twinkle in his eye says all my dreams and his are about to come true again, more and even better than I imagined.

Force, I love him. But it was the tunic that did me in.


End file.
